One Moment
by Geekiness-Is-LOVE
Summary: George is wrecked by his brother Fred dying. Who can help him get through it? Angelina. A story about love, loss, pain, and the perfect girl. Two shot, Angelina/George. R and R!
1. Wish It Had Been Him

**A/N: I hope you like this, as much as anyone can like an angsty story such as this one. It will be a chapter story, about George rebuilding his life with Angelina.**

George stood, motionlessly staring down at Fred's corpse, his eyes blank.

It was horrible, he thought. How once you die, you're not…just Fred anymore; you're a corpse, a body, an empty shell that needs to be disposed of.

He couldn't believe that, he George, the younger twin was a living breathing person and his twin, his best friend, his better half, his partner in crime, _his everything,_ was now a corpse. An empty, lifeless body that wasn't his brother anymore.

He watched people paying their respects and felt sick. This wasn't his brother. The people that were crowding around that statue, they weren't saying good bye to Fred. They were crying over a lifeless _nothing_. Fred wasn't that body, Fred was…somewhere else.

That wasn't Fred anymore.

He was _gone_.

And that was the part that killed him the most. That was the part that made him want to scream out loud and yell, angry at Fred, angry at the world.

Because Fred was somewhere else now, he was somewhere where George _couldn't_ follow.

The twins had done everything together, since as long as anyone could remember. They'd pulled their first prank, joined the Quidditch team, nearly failed fifth year, left school in seventh, and fought off Voldemort.

But now Fred was dead. And George couldn't go with him. This wasn't something that he could tag along with.

George swiped a tear from his eye, feeling extremely foolish. He remembered a moment, before the fight, a moment where he'd felt doubt; where he'd felt that maybe they shouldn't do this, maybe they shouldn't go out there. He'd thought about how it would feel if Fred died.

Fred had dismissed his fears immediately, his eyes shining, finding some fun in everything, as he and George, usually always did.

'_Fred,' George asked quietly, standing alone as they were in a corner of the room. 'You scared?'_

'_Yeah,' Fred admitted. He clapped his brother on the back. 'We'll be fine though, mate.'_

'_What if one of us…?' George let the sentence float away into oblivion._

'_We won't,' Fred said firmly. He never had liked talking about his feelings, that was George. 'We'll be fine, I promise.'_

_So, like an idiot, George had believed him._

George sniffed. He was so naïve. How could he have just gone off to fight cheerfully, just because his brother_ promised_ him they would be okay? Was he some innocent child that believed promises couldn't be broken?

Then he felt angry at Fred. How could he say something like that? No one can promise anything like that. How did he make a promise that big and then go off to battle with a smile on his face? It was unbelievable.

Then George felt weak for even blaming Fred. Fred was _dead_ for crying out loud!

That was how George had always felt. The weaker twin, the quieter brother, the lesser one of the great duo.

So, why hadn't it been him?

George knew that his brother and he were extremely alike. Only Fred and George himself knew the difference between them. Fred had always been better at…_everything_. So, George thought it stood to reason that he was the one who should have died.

He didn't want to be the one left behind, a great black cloud behind him for the rest of his life because he knew that it was an accident, some twist of fate that Fred had died instead of him.

Then, George returned straight back to anger. It must be easy for Fred, up there.

He's the one who's dead, who doesn't have to deal with the grief and the real hard emotional stuff.

George has to deal with his mother, his father and people for the rest of his life, whispering, 'Yes, that's the emotionally debilitated Weasley twin. You know, the one who survived?'

So at that moment, George let the tears fall down his cheeks, and admitted to himself, free of guilt, that he wished it had been him.

**I know it's sad, but please review!**


	2. Our War Has Just Begun

**One review for this story. ONE! Thank you, ValFish, by the way!**

**Chapter two: Our War Has Just Begun.**

Angelina Johnson stood behind the Weasley's in the Great Hall. She couldn't believe he was dead. Dead, as in, not alive anymore. No air was passing through Fred Weasley's lungs, and he would never look at her, and grin that mischievous grin; never laugh at her; never play Quidditch with her; never prank her; never smile secretly but pretend to be sorry when she yelled at him for pranking her. It was really all over.

The war was over, Voldemort was gone, and everyone was celebrating. How can they be celebrating? She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream about how no one can celebrate, no one can be happy until this sick joke is over. Until she wakes up, and Fred isn't actually dead. When she wakes up, and goes out with her friends and sees both the Weasley twins, sees them both smiling at her. Happy.

She'd take the pranks; she wouldn't scream when they played tricks on her. She wouldn't shout things like, "I hope you go die in a hole."

She'd accept their faults; she wouldn't sigh exasperatedly every time something was serious and they screwed it up with a joke.

She just wanted everything back the way it was. Light hearted, fun, joking, ad normal.

She knew it was selfish, and she hated herself even more for it. She would want him back, even if it meant Voldemort came back. Even if it meant that poor kid Harry Potter would have to go through it all again.

She'd make him. Just to have Fred back.

She felt left out, like she shouldn't be there. Hermione, Harry and the rest of the Weasley's stood arm in arm, a strong chain, linked together by terrible loss and great pain. What had she ever done to think that she should be allowed to say goodbye to Fred's body, and ask that his soul rest in peace wherever it was.

But she wanted to see him one last time. No matter how masochistic that might be, she wanted to look at him, and think, "I knew you and liked – loved you in my lifetime, Fred Weasley. Goodbye."

She wanted to have George tell her that it would all be okay. Because if George the prankster wasn't alright, how could anyone else be?

She stepped forward tentatively, and Mrs Weasley and Hermione stepped aside to make way for her. She sniffed, not even realising that they had probably only noticed she was there by hearing the great wracking sobs wrenched from her body. In truth, Mr Weasley had noticed the girl before, she was a wreck, emotionally and physically and if she wanted to say goodbye to his son, then it was the least he could do.

She knelt by his side, and looked down at him fondly. Bile rose in her throat as she looked at the stiff cold unmoving body before her.

She'd been wrong.

Seeing his body hadn't brought any kind of closure, or whatever she had hoped to gain from it.

For this wasn't Fred anymore. This was an empty shell, a soulless nothing, a corpse that would rot, decay and turn to dust, leaving nothing of the real Fred Weasley behind.

This body didn't remind her of when they'd kissed in sixth year. His laugh after wards, the way she felt when he looked at her.

This body didn't remind her of when they'd both tried out for the Quidditch team together. He had been really nervous, though he pretended not to show it.

This body didn't remind her of when he'd taken all her possessions and hidden them, and she'd screamed at him until her throat was sore, and then they'd ended up kissing for hours, even though she swore that she was still mad.

This body didn't remind her of the promise he'd made before the fight. "I'll be okay," he had said cheerfully. "We all will. I promise." Like an idiot, she'd believed him.

Thos memories weren't in what he looked like, they were in who he was, how he spoke, what he said, the way he was.

Thos memories were in the glint of his eye when he was scheming.

Those memories were in the way his face paled when he got nervous.

Those memories were in the exhilarated laugh that came after a snog fest, in the way that their lips felt chapped for days.

Those memories were in his smile and his eyes when he looked at her.

She stood, dropping his cold hand. She'd been wrong, and now she felt worse than ever.

She walked in a daze, muttered something to his parents about how sorry she was, and turned to go.

She was simply going to walk away, too wrapped up in her own sorrows to think about anyone else. Until she noticed _him_.

George Weasley was a mess. An emotional wreck. Angelina cursed herself for being so caught up in her own emotions that she didn't even think about what this must mean for George. She'd thought her loss was bad. Could she even imagine losing her twin if she'd had one?

It must have been ten times worse.

She held him tightly, burying her face in his neck as he gripped her tightly, anchoring himself to this earth via Angelina.

She felt tears, not her own, slide down her back and she held him tighter, a lump in her throat.

"It's over," George said to her, his voice muffled by her shoulder. "It's all over. But he's dead."

"It's all over," She repeated, burrowing her face into his neck. "But I'm afraid our war has just begun."

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! Much love!**


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